Decline of a Father's Son       

I didn't raise my son to be a salesman
But too many parties and too few 'A's
Now he lands a job making more than me

He studied engineering in school - like me
But now he's busy making numbers
Shaking a glad hand
Slapping a back
Smiling with confidence
Ruby-throating his way into their hearts
As he looms in for the close

Each quota made - just met with another
Nobody cared about the job he did 5 years ago
(Getting that signature in the boredroom at quarter's end)
Just now - and tomorrow

Now the dark circles and cigarettes
Grip his spirit as he
Makes his dinner of cold basketed popcorn and warm Martinis
He wonders what he will have left behind after he is gone

He used to like to play the piano and sing
But there's no time for that now
Because there's no money in that now
So he sucks down coffee after coffee
Pissing away fatigue and boredom

Yet he never loses his salesmask
That vibrant, friendly face of reassuredness
It's just a little threadbare these days
And no one knows who he really is
Not even himself -
But me.

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Copyright © 1997 by George Clay
All Rights Reserved